


Ski-Crossed Lovers

by abp



Series: Ski-Crossed Lovers [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Fluff, I was really into ski cross for some reason idk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abp/pseuds/abp
Summary: Skiing might be tough, but falling in love is easy.





	Ski-Crossed Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> If you're like "wow this looks familiar", it's because I wrote this four years ago during the Sochi Olympics and have just now decided to clean it up and post it here. And there's a sequel coming. :)

The first time Courfeyrac sees Combeferre is on television. He’s 16 and  _just_  too young and under-talented to make the Olympics this year (which  _sucks_  because he knows for a fact that, in two years—maybe even in  _one_ —he’ll be at a point where he would qualified. But of course the timing’s all wrong), so he has to settle for obsessively watching the skiing events over the television and dreaming of the day he’ll be there.

It’s hard to miss Combeferre on tv, really. The stations have all latched on to him as a medal hopeful in both ski cross and the biathlon—which is  _unheard_   _of_  and only makes him all the more exciting to keep talking about in between events. It doesn’t hurt that he’s cute and only just 21.

Combeferre walks away with a silver in ski cross and a bronze in the biathlon; Courfeyrac’s suitably charmed.

**

Courfeyrac meets Combeferre for the first time at Worlds. It’s not his first time competing, but it  _is_  his first time competing when his placing will have everything to do with whether or not he’ll have a spot on the Olympic team. So he’s a little nervous.

Combeferre is in the gate next to him during the first trial and gives him a kind smile. “Hey, don’t worry. Just ski.”

He can only nod in reply, too nervous to process words.

After all the runs, Courfeyrac places seventh overall. Combeferre gives him a thumbs up from the sidelines where he was apparently watching. It’s not enough for a medal, but more than enough to qualify for a shot at the Olympics.

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Combeferre again before the competition ends.

**

When Courfeyrac moves to the Olympic training center to be around other Olympic hopefuls and give his life over to training night and day, he doesn’t expect to formally meet Combeferre. But there he is, on the first day, rollerblading around the dorms with a book in hand. How he can read, rollerblade, and not crash into a wall is beyond Courfeyrac.

“Hello,” Combeferre smiles brightly and stops when he first sees Courfeyrac in the hallway. “Courfeyrac, right?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac smiles back, though he might be internally freaking out a bit because the number one ranked skier in the ski cross event  _knows his name_. He tries to keep it cool. “Nice to meet you.”

Combeferre’s smile turns warmer. If that’s possible. “You too,” he nods. “You’re new to the area, right?”

Courfeyrac nods. “Uh, yeah. Ignoring all the boxes I have to unpack as we speak.”

Combeferre gives a laugh and that same blinding smile. “Well, if you’re still looking to avoid those boxes later, you should come get dinner with me and some friends. We’d be happy to show you around.”

For a moment, Courfeyrac’s not sure if he can breathe. A cute, talented, generally  _amazing_  guy is being unnecessarily kind to him. “That’d be great. Really great.”

“Awesome,” Combeferre grins. “Give me your number and I’ll text you when we’re heading out. It should be in about an hour.”

Courfeyrac walks away from the encounter with a new phone number in his contacts and a worry that maybe this training facility won’t be as distraction-free as he hoped.

**

Courfeyrac is unsurprisingly nervous when he arrives in Sochi. The others tease him, but Combeferre seems to decide to informally take Courfeyrac under his wing instead. Not that Courfeyrac minds; it means that Combeferre is paying him more attention and spending much more time with him than he had back in the States. Plus, when they’re out on the course to practice, he starts giving Courfeyrac little tips here and there—which is both a little frustrating and a lot sweet.

When they’re not practicing together, they’re eating together or going to watch a curling match together or stretching together. And the moment they’re apart, they’re texting. Courfeyrac doesn’t know when it happened, but he knows Combeferre’s become one of the most important people in his life.

**

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Courfeyrac moans, standing just a little ways away from the gates. His group for the first run is about to go and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt this nervous in his life.

Combeferre has the gall to laugh at him. He does give a bit of an apologetic look when Courfeyrac huffs. “You’ll be fine. You’re great at what you do, Courf.”

Something in the praise—or maybe just Combeferre’s tone—relaxes Courfeyrac minutely.

“Hey, just ski.”

Courfeyrac blinks in surprise at the words. “You said that to me before Worlds.”

Combeferre smiles. “I know.”

He doesn’t have time to ask what  _that_  means before their coach is pushing him off to get ready to go. He does turn around one last time to see Combeferre give him a thumbs up.

**

Courfeyrac wins the first run easily, just slips by into second during his quarterfinal run, and manages another second place finish in his semifinal run by the skin of his teeth. It’s a surprise really. He knew he vaguely had a shot at making it to the finals, but it had seemed so far off among the best of the best that to be in the  _top four_  is a little unreal. It doesn’t even matter if he gets a medal, this is bragging rights enough. (Well okay, he’d really,  _really_  like a medal, but it’s so not going to happen and he’s cool with that.)

Combeferre is beside him as they wait for the call to take their places (because of course he’d made it—Courfeyrac had no doubt that Combeferre would be taking home the gold). “You haven’t puked yet.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “No. And I think I’ll make it through the event vomit-free after all.”

“Good.” Combeferre’s looking a little keyed up himself, though, and Courfeyrac frowns.

“Hey,” he nudges Combeferre. “Whatever happens, everyone knows you’re the best.”

Combeferre laughs. “I think there are a couple guys up here that might disagree with that.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” Courfeyrac grins.

Combeferre smiles back. “Good luck, Courf.”

“Just ski,” Courfeyrac says instead, smiling as they move to get in their gate positions. His heart flutters a little when, lined up and just about to go, Combeferre looks over once more at him and winks.

**

When he sees the skier in front of him go down, Courfeyrac takes a moment to pity the guy before it hits him that—so long as he doesn’t screw himself over in the next thirty seconds—he’s going to go home with a bronze medal. Which is  _beyond_  real.

He’s also very aware of Combeferre in the lead, almost as caught up in that as he is in his own skiing.

There’s a wave of noise when he crosses the finish line and euphoria washes over him. Immediately he skis over to where the other two winners are gathered—where Combeferre is standing with his helmet off, grinning like a madman.

Courfeyrac has his helmet thrown to the ground and his arms around Combeferre in an instant. In the next, he has their mouths pressed together.

“You did it!” Courfeyrac’s beaming when he pulls back, overswept with emotions. It only hits him when he looks at Combeferre’s shocked face that what he did was probably more than a strictly platonic display. In front of the entire world. Including both sets of their parents.

But Combeferre’s arms are around his waist and in the next second he’s pressing their freezing lips together chastely. The crowd goes wild, roaring with cheers.

Courfeyrac waves to them, his cheeks flushed with more than the cold and Combeferre’s arm still around him.

“You did it too,” Combeferre murmurs. “I’m so proud, Courf.”

“You got  _gold_  and you’re proud of me?”

Combeferre laughs. “You were amazing today. You  _are_  amazing.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Courfeyrac smiles towards the cameras as the press come out to get more official-looking pictures of the three winners. “Because I’m pretty sure the entire world thinks we’re dating now.”

“Well if the  _entire_  world thinks that,” Combeferre hums. “I guess I better take you out tonight.”

Courfeyrac grins, brighter than before, but manages to wait until they walk out of the winner’s circle to kiss Combeferre again.


End file.
